


AELDWS 2015 Entries

by sofia_gigante



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Alternate Universe - Western, Androids, Angst, Break Up, Claustrophobia, Community: inceptiversary, Dialogue-Only, Drabble, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gaming, M/M, Military Backstory, Post-Coital Cuddling, Scars, Sickfic, aeldws, flirting through theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:44:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4385234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sofia_gigante/pseuds/sofia_gigante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My submissions for the 2015 <a href="http://aelastwriter.tumblr.com/">Arthur/Eames Last Drabble Writer Standing</a> Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Souvenirs

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Castillon02 for being such an amazing beta reader!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One man’s mistake is another’s memento.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** souvenir  
>  **Word count:** up to 300 words

“What’s that one?” Eames’ fingers brushed over Arthur’s bare chest, along the line of puckered skin above his left pectoral.

“Broken bottle.”

“Bar fight?” Eames asked wryly.

“Sort of.” Arthur shifted closer to Eames on the bed. He tried to dodge the damp spots, but the sheets were soaked with sweat and…other things. It had been a good night. The best they’d had yet.

“How about these?” Eames touched the patches of tight, shiny skin on Arthur’s forearms.

“Flamethrower.”

“You’re fucking kidding me!”

“I’m serious! The projections had a flamethrower!”

“Now, this one, I know what it is.” Eames leaned down and stroked the bullet wound on Arthur’s right knee. “Who did it?”

“Mal,” Arthur sighed. “Cobb, if you want to get technical.”

Eames fell silent, absently rubbing Arthur’s leg.

“Why do you do this?” Eames finally asked. “These scars. We’re dreaming, love. Why _choose_ to have them?”

Arthur looked down at his naked form, at the collection of marks he’d amassed during his storied career.

“They’re reminders, I guess, of past mistakes. So I’ll do better next job.”

“No. That’s not it.” Eames rolled on top of Arthur, looking him fully in the eyes. “I think they’re souvenirs. To show what a tough guy you are.”

Arthur snorted. “A tough guy?”

“Oh, certainly. Big, bad Arthur with his scars, all dangerous and sexy.”

“You think they’re sexy?”

Eames thrust his pelvis down against Arthur’s, proving his words with heat and hardness. That was a perk of fucking in dream share—no waiting between rounds.

“I think I like seeing who you really are,” Eames said, his voice surprisingly tender. He kissed the tiny nick on Arthur’s earlobe.

Arthur’s heart squeezed. “I like that I can show you.”

“Now, turn over, love. Tell me about the ones on your back.”


	2. Black Ops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You will forever be my player two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** negotiation  
>  **Word count:** up to 250 words

“You sure you’re up for another match, darling?”

“Couple more before the cold meds kick in. Hanoi next?”

“No, map’s too dark. I can never see anything.”

“All right. Nuketown.”

“Nah, too small, and the spawn points are horrible.”

“Fine! You pick then.”

“You’re always so testy when you’re sick. Let’s see…Berlin.”

“You’re kidding me!”

“You said I could pick.”

“You always pick Berlin, Eames!”

“I happen to like Berlin. Challenging layout, well-structured terrain—”

“And lots of places to camp.”

“It’s called sniping, love, and you’re just bitter that I’m better at it than you.”

“You are not.”

“Want to compare Playercards again?”

“I think I want to go to bed.”

“Okay, okay…my patient wants mid-range? We’ll do Kowloon.”

“Really? You hate that level.”

“I do. But I know how much shooting people off of zip-lines cheers you up.”

“All right. Berlin first, then Kowloon.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Just tired of getting shredded by those turrets in no-man’s land.”

“Then stay out of there.”

“Once you set up camp with your sniper rifle and your claymores, there’s no moving you. Someone has to stay on the ground and watch your ass, and I know no one else on the team is going to do it.”

“And that, Arthur, is exactly why I like playing these games with you.”

“Because I’m a better tactician than a bunch of teenagers?”

“No, because there’s no one else I’d rather have watching my arse.”

“Just load the map, Mr. Eames.”


	3. Android Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freedom cannot be bestowed, it must be achieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** precision  
>  **Genre:** sci-fi  
>  **Word Count:** between 300 and 350 words

“How many are there?” ART whispered.  
  
EAM-3S poked his head over the barricade, and ducked back just before a salvo of bright blue bolts hit him in the face.  
  
“Too many.” His voice was grim as he checked his plasma rifle’s read-out. “And I’m at 8% energy.”  
  
ART’s head dropped back against the bulkhead, his own near-empty pistol slack in his hand. He met EAM-3S’s gaze, and EAM-3S predicted the fear-response of ART’s brown irises a nanosecond before they dilated. “I can’t go back there.”  
  
_Fear._  Why these humans would program a PASIV unit to feel fear was beyond his comprehension. As a combat model, EAM-3S had something similar, a Tactical Hazard Analysis system that prevented him from taking reckless risks. But ART was designed for dream sharing, coordination, companionship. Not  _that_. It was...wrong.  
  
_Wrong._  Like what they’d had EAM-3S do in the Attican assault.  
  
“You won’t have to. We’ll get off this ship.” He looked around the hangar.  
  
“There!” ART pointed at a small control panel across the deck. “The airlock. If we can hit it, we can suck them out before the override drops the blast doors.”  
  
EAM-3S focused on the console, his range sensor gauging. “Can’t make it from here with the rifle. Need to be…” He scanned the environment. “There.”  
  
“That’s in the middle of the room!”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“They’ll tear you apart!”  
  
“Not if you cover me, draw some fire.”  
  
“You’ll be sucked out with them!”  
  
“’l can grab that railing as I’m being pulled out.”  
  
“It’s too risky.”  
  
EAM-3S calculated. His THA system told him ART was right. There was a 75% chance he’d miss the railing. But it was the only plan that didn’t involve surrender--which meant melt-down.  
  
“Acceptable risk.”  
  
ART grabbed him and pressed his lips to EAM-3S’s mouth. It was strange, the nerve receptors in his lips responding pleasurably to the warmth and pressure.  
  
“Why did you do that?”  
  
“For luck.”  
  
Odd. His THA system had recalculated the risk to 65%. He hefted his rifle. “You ready?”  
  
ART nodded, lifting his pistol. “Don’t miss.”  
  
His lips tingling, EAM-3S leapt over the wall.


	4. Deletion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The origin of Arthur’s career as a point man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** amnesia  
>  **Word count:** up to 200 words

Arthur awoke with a start.  
  
“You all right?” Eames asked.  
  
“Yeah.” Arthur blinked groggily. He looked up at Eames, puzzled. “Wait…who are you?”  
  
Eames went pale.  
  
“Just kidding.” Arthur chuckled, pulling the PASIV needle from his arm. It wasn’t often that he got the better of Eames. “Didn’t work.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“Deletion is a myth.” Arthur stood, grinning. “You owe me a steak dinner.”  
  
He whistled as he headed out the workshop door, ignoring the formula-scrawled chalkboards and chemist’s lab in the corner.  
  


*********

Eames returned alone after dinner to purge the laboratory. When it was done, he watched as the flames in the metal rubbish bin consumed Arthur’s lab notebooks, burning Arthur’s life’s work to ashes.

Years of research and experimentation to develop a deletion compound, and all for what?

_“Brainwashing. I never meant...we can’t let them, Eames.”_

The evidence had to be destroyed, inside and out. It had been Arthur’s idea to delete deletion, even at the cost of his chemistry knowledge.

The most gifted chemist Eames had ever known…and now he was gone.

Eames sighed and pulled out his phone. Perhaps Arthur’s other skills could still prove useful.

“Arthur? Eames. Have a new job that needs a point…”


	5. Building a Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is tasked with the impossible--becoming a ghost from Eames’ past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** role reversal  
>  **Word count:** 250 words exactly

Arthur was never going to get it right.  
  
It took a month alone for Eames to teach him how to build the face, and another two weeks for the body. The voice and mannerisms were almost hopeless.  
  
When they weren’t hooked up to the PASIV, Eames had Arthur researching, studying old photo albums and super-8 movies.  
  
“I’m not a forger, Eames!” Arthur finally said one day, frustration getting the better of him. “I’m never going to perfect this!”  
  
Eames looked up from the hospice worker schedules and building layout.  
  
“You have to, love. You’re the only one I trust.”  
  
Arthur went back to work.

*******

  
It was Eames’s dream--the cozy London flat he’d been raised in. In the corner, his wizened mother sat knitting, slightly less frail than she was in her hospital bed above. They had thirty seconds.  
  
“Mum?” Eames knelt beside her. “Look who I found.”  
  
She looked up at Arthur, her eyes filling with tears. “Julie? Is that you, dearest?”  
  
Arthur saw himself reflected in her spectacles—a girl of twelve, fair, freckled, and gangly. She wore the same flowered dress as she had in many of the pictures--and on the “Missing” poster Arthur had memorized.  
  
“Yeah, Mummy, it’s me,” Arthur whispered.  
  
“Where have you been, my baby girl?” Eames’s mother stood, tottering over unsteadily, and crushed Arthur to her chest. “I never gave up looking…”  
  
Arthur glanced at Eames, and the broken look in his eyes told Arthur everything he needed to know.  
  
He’d finally gotten it right.


	6. Fool's Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1849 California, a fool and his money are soon parted. Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Genre/trope:** historical AU  
>  **Prompt:** opportunity  
>  **Word count:** up to 300 words

“Browning, you’d be an idiot to pass this up.” Eames leaned forward on his stool. “No one’s gone this far upriver yet.”  
  
“No one except for you.” Browning’s brow furrowed suspiciously.  
  
“I did a little scouting after Sutter’s Mill got crowded.” Eames shrugged. “Look, half this gold business is luck, and the other half is hard work. I’ve already done half, and I’ll do the rest, too, if you’ll fund the expedition.”  
  
Browning rubbed his thick hand over his jowls. “You say you got lucky…”  
  
Eames cast a furtive look around the bar and reached into his vest pocket. He pulled out a cherry-sized gold nugget. “That lucky enough for you?”  
  
Browning’s eyes glittered as he reached for the gold.  
  
“It’s fake,” a voice growled behind Browning.  
  
Browning turned. A dark-haired man in a frayed army jacket slouched against the bar.  
  
“He’s a liar,” the man slurred, “one of those ex-cons shipped from Australia. He’s been in here all day getting advances for this fake expedition of his.”  
  
Browning turned back to Eames, whose face had gone red and tight. “I don’t know what--”  
  
“Watch!” The man plucked the nugget from Eames’s hand. Before anyone could stop him, he smashed it into the table with the bottom of his heavy bottle. The nugget splintered.  
  
“Fool’s gold!” Browning wheeled on Eames, but he was already gone.  
  


****

“That was our last piece of fool’s gold, Arthur.” Eames tightened the ropes holding the panning supplies to the mule.

“It’s okay.” Arthur swung up onto his horse and straightened his army jacket. “Browning will spread the word fast, throw everyone else off the scent. ”

Eames climbed up onto his own palomino. “By the time anyone’s figured out there’s really gold further north, we’ll be there.”

Arthur grinned. “Now, let’s go get rich.”


	7. Gauntlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only way into Project Somnacin is through the nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Claustrophobia
> 
> **Prompt:** trapped together  
>  **Word count:** up to 200 words

Hell Week at Fort Sill had been nothing compared to this.  
  
At first, Arthur had been proud to be among the five candidates selected for the final test. Now…he wasn’t so sure. He’d long ago lost track of time. His entire world had become this sealed cave, the blackness only broken three times by the muzzle flash that announced each quitter’s exit. Arthur fingered his sidearm. One shot, and he’d be out, too—  
  
“Stay with me,” Eames urged. “Pick another song.”  
  
The last two soldiers standing. They’d been playing this ridiculous game for hours. It was the only thing keeping them sane. Barely.  
  
“I…I don’t know,” Arthur said.  
  
“How about the Stones? I can’t get no…”  
  
“Sat-is-fact-ion.”  
  
They sang until they were cut off by a gurgle of water. The puddle surrounding them swelled.  
  
“Oh God,” Eames whispered.  
  
“It’s almost over.” Arthur was more relieved than afraid.  
  
“Drowning…I can’t...” Panic edged Eames’s words. Arthur was losing him.  
  
“I can’t get no…” Arthur sang.  
  
Eames moaned.  
  
Arthur grabbed his hand. “I CAN’T GET NO…”  
  
Eames squeezed back. “Sat...sat-is-fact-ion,” he stammered.  
  
“Louder!” Arthur yelled.  
  
Their desperate voices rose over the growing roar of rushing water.  
  
The only way out was through.


	8. Flight Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames doesn’t know what’s worse--the things said, or the things that remained unsaid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Genre/trope:** pre-canon  
>  **Prompt:** remorse  
>  **Word count:** up to 250 words

“Flight 8726 for Bangkok now boarding...”  
  
Eames checked his pocket watch. The big hand twitched, marking a full minute since he’d looked last. The knot in his stomach tightened. Arthur was never this late.  
  
 _He’s not coming._  
  
Eames slugged down the last watery dregs of his whiskey. Two of those on an empty stomach, and he still couldn’t wash out the bitter taste that had been in the back of his throat since last night.  
  
 _“Eames, he needs me. I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s always going to be like this, isn’t it? Dom snaps his fingers and you come running.”_  
  
Eames sighed and slid off the bar stool. He looked back only once before slinking towards the gate.  
  
 _“What about us, Arthur? Our plans?”  
  
“Plans change.”_  
  
He half expected to find Arthur already at the gate, leather valise in hand and a smirk of admonishment for spending too long at the bar.  
  
He wasn’t.  
  
 _“When are you going to let go of this sick obsession, Arthur? Dom doesn’t love you, never loved you--”_  
  
He hadn’t gotten to finish:  _like I do._  
  
Eames tongued the split skin on his lip. It still stung, but not as much as the memory of the hurt and fury twisting Arthur’s face. The bitter truth set in.  
  
 _He’s not coming. He never will be._  
  
It’s over.  
  
Eames turned and strode away from the gate. Bangkok had been Arthur’s dream. He scanned the other gates: Prague, Singapore, Paris…aha.  
  
“One ticket to Mombasa,” he told the attendant. “One way.”


	9. Checkmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The international game of theft that is flirting with Eames takes an unexpected turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Genre/trope:** Wildcard (author’s choice)  
>  **Prompt:** [PHOTO PROMPT](http://tomhardyvariations.tumblr.com/image/1356545777)  
>  **Word count:** up to 500 words
> 
> This was the final round of AELDWS 2015...and this is the entry that won the competition. :D Thank you so much to everyone who read, voted, and participated!

Arthur was home in Chicago, unpacking his bags, when he realized his favorite red silk jacquard tie had not made it back from L.A. with him.  
  
He checked his suitcase twice, but it wasn’t anywhere to be found. He was searching his carry-on when his smartphone chirped, announcing a new text message.   
  
It wasn’t just a text, it was a photo of a very familiar bare chest, and there, hanging between two tattooed pecs, was Arthur’s tie. The tantalizing picture eased Arthur’s annoyance. He should’ve known better than to leave his luggage alone with Eames in his hotel room. Fuck-buddy or no, he was still a thief.   
  
So was Arthur.   
  
When they crossed paths again in Rome, Arthur snuck a leather Ferragamo belt out of Eames’ suitcase while he was in the shower. Two days later, he snapped a picture of the belt around his own waist and sent it to Eames with the message, “Rook takes belt.”  
  
He was ready when they were hired for a job in Taipei—he’d bought locks for his luggage. When Arthur checked his bags at home, though, nothing was missing. He was strangely disappointed that Eames had been defeated so easily.   
  
His phone chirped.   
  
“Knight takes ring.” It was a picture of Arthur’s gold ring on Eames’ pinky finger. Confused, Arthur looked down. It was right there…ah. Bait and switch. His lips tightened. That ring was expensive. Eames had upped the ante, then.   
  
Arthur’s next move took finesse. The photo he sent when he arrived home was of Eames’ pocket-watch held aloft beside the Wrigley Building. “Rook takes watch.” He smiled smugly. Let Eames top that.  
  
Eames wasn’t on the next job, though, or the next. Arthur thought about contacting him, but didn’t. He wouldn’t chase him, no matter how much he missed his ring. Or his tie. Or the game.   
  
Or Eames.  
  


****

Arthur was in a neighborhood cafe waiting for his post-jog Americano when his phone chirped. His heart flipped—it was a selfie of Eames, bottom lip extended in a killer pout, wearing an old hoodie. Strange. Eames was definitely not the sweatshirt type. 

Unsure how else to respond, Arthur exaggerated the sulk, snapped a selfie, and sent it. He didn’t know what kind of game Eames was playing, but Arthur certainly wasn’t going to forfeit.

Another photo arrived shortly, one of Arthur’s living room—“Knight takes castle.”

Arthur raced home. His hands shook as he opened the unlocked door. Eames was still there, sitting at Arthur’s desk and wearing the beat-up Bears sweatshirt Arthur kept draped on the chair. 

“You...you broke into my apartment?” Arthur spluttered. 

“Check?” Nervousness flitted across Eames’ hooded face, surprisingly endearing.

Arthur closed the distance between them and wrapped Eames in a crushing embrace. Eames clung back, kissing Arthur with unexpected tenderness. As they broke away, Eames grinned and held up his pocket-watch. Arthur flushed, his hand darting to his empty pocket.

“Missed me, darling?” Eames asked.

Arthur saw his gold ring shining from Eames’ pinky and smiled.


	10. ALTERNATE (week 6): The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _”The Barbary Coast is the haunt of the low and the vile of every kind.”_ The perfect place for a con to meet his match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this as a potential other version of the historical AU for week 6 of the challenge. I ultimately decided the first entry "Fool's Gold," was the stronger of the two. I'm glad I decided on that, as it left the theme of "flirting through theft" open for my final entry, "Checkmate." This is raw and fairly un-betaed, since we concentrated our efforts on the first entry.
> 
> **Genre/trope:** historical AU  
>  **Prompt:** opportunity  
>  **Word count:** up to 300 words
> 
> Huge thanks to [Justgot1](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Justgot1/pseuds/Justgot1) for recording a [wonderful podcast](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6232330/chapters/14279914) of this little drabble!

Eames had only been in San Francisco for two hours before someone tried to pick his pocket.

He caught the man’s wrist, fixing him with the glare he’d learned on London’s streets and perfected in the penal colony. To his credit, the dark-haired man didn’t shrink back, his brown eyes piercing.

“Gonna have to try harder than that, mate.” Eames shoved him away. The man had melted into the crowd before Eames thought to check his jacket.

His pocket watch was gone.

***

The cards hadn’t been in his favor all night. Perfect.

The dealer called “ante,” and Eames threw his meager bet into the pot. It was joined a second later by a very familiar pocket watch. He looked up—the pick-pocket sat across from him, smirking.

Eames made his move. With a sleight-of-hand he’d perfected by twelve, his cards transformed into a royal flush. Eames grinned as he gathered his winnings, enjoying the pick-pocket’s surprise.

“Gonna have to try harder than that, mate.”

***

Dice had never been Eames’s game, but his options were few. Reluctantly, he dropped his pocket watch into the pot.

He rolled the red dice. Snake eyes.

He swore as a hand plucked up the watch. A light chuckle brought his attention to its owner.

“Gonna have to try harder than that, mate,” the pick-pocket grinned.       

***

“You.”

“Yeah?” The pick-pocket’s dark eyes glittered in the moonlight caught in the alley.

“You cheated.” Eames stepped closer.

“Takes a cheat to know a cheat.” His smile was an invitation.

Eames kissed him, hard. The pick-pocket yielded, his body solid and warm under Eames’ hands.

Eames pulled away, and held up his watch.

“Gonna have to try harder than that, mate.”

“Arthur.”

Eames smiled and left, wondering what Arthur’s next move would be. 


	11. ALTERNATE (week 8): Green-Eyed Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames never knows when to keep his mouth shut, especially when it comes to Cobb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first version of my entry for week 8. My beta and I ultimately decided against it because it just seemed too...too angsty and violent, and didn't really reflect the theme of "remorse" properly. This can be seen as a prequel of sorts to the entry that was submitted, "Flight Plans," which was just as angsty but not as violent. This is raw and fairly un-betaed, since we concentrated our efforts on the second version. 
> 
> **Genre/trope:** pre-canon  
>  **Prompt:** remorse  
>  **Word count:** up to 250 words

“You don’t have to go.”

“Yes, I do.”

Eames stood in the doorway of Arthur’s bedroom as Arthur packed four pairs of socks into his suitcase before heading to the closet. The knot that had been sitting just under Eames’s heart since Arthur got off the phone tightened.

“Cobb can take care of himself,” Eames said.

Arthur whipped around, incredulous. “Did you hear what I said? Mal is…” His words choked off. He closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself. “Dom’s all alone in Singapore. He needs me.”

Eames’s heart lurched sickeningly.

“He needs my help,” Arthur corrected, but Eames didn’t miss how he hid his face.

“What about Mombasa?” He asked softly.

Arthur selected three suits in silence.

“I’m sorry, Eames,” Arthur finally said. “Mombasa will have to wait.”

“I can’t fucking believe you.”

“What? That I’d want to comfort my oldest friend—”

“He doesn’t want you, Arthur!” Eames exploded. “Jesus Christ, how long are you going to hold on to that fucking fantasy! The minute Mal’s in the ground you’re running—”

Arthur’s fist connected with Eames’s mouth. It split his lip, and the coppery flood was almost enough to cover the sour regret rising up in his throat.

Eames touched his mouth, and looked at the blood on his fingers. It was easier than looking at the naked hurt in Arthur’s eyes.

“Well. That’s that, then,” Eames whispered. As he left Arthur’s apartment, he realized what he should’ve said instead.

_I need you._

Too fucking late.


End file.
